like those summer days
by likeglory
Summary: When they are children, Lydia thinks that there's this boy who has eyes like the stuff her father used to keep hidden under the kitchen sink. That never really changes.


**A/N:** (edited on jan. 13th, 2015.) originally posted on ao3. a huge thank you to my beta reader anakinsw on tumblr

* * *

><p>It starts like this:<p>

Lydia meets Stiles Stilinski on the playground of Beacon Hills Elementary School when she is six years old.

She's heading towards the swings, feeling light and free like a bird in her yellow dress in the early September afternoon warmth. Her feet glide over the bark like she doesn't know that she could get splinters from hurrying in her sandals, and her strawberry blonde hair chases her in a long braid.

The sun is warm on the skin of her arms and her face; Lydia Martin has the urge to fly.

Her eyes are focused on the swing closest to the ground—the one that, if you push yourself hard enough, it will propel you higher into the air than any other swing in the vicinity—so she doesn't see the red rubber ball that's sailing through the air, that hits her in the side of the head.

She can hear Jackson yelling something of an apology, because the teacher on recess duty is probably giving him a stern look, but she kicks the ball aimlessly in what she thinks is his direction and continues towards the swings—

A body crashes into hers, without warning, and she lets out a startled cry as she feels herself hit the bark, hard, on her left arm. It hurts, there's probably scrapes, and she wants to cry, because, _ow_—

"Oh my god, oh god, I'm _sorry_, I'm sorry, are you okay?" a babble of words reaches her ears, and before she can protest, dirty hands are grabbing her wrist and yanking her off the ground. Righting herself, she looks at the one who crashed into her, her mouth open, but then stops short.

She expected it to be Matt, or maybe even Jackson, but it's not. It's a boy with eyes like the stuff her father keeps under the kitchen sink and a nervous way to his shifting his weight from one foot to the other, looking anxious—apologetic.

"I'm fine," she says—snaps, really.

"Look, I was trying to find Scott—you know, Scott McCall?—and I was avoiding getting hit with a ball by Jackson—and—"

"I'm fine," she repeats, dusting away the dirt from her scrapes with her hand, as if it's nothing, when, really, it stings like hell. She doesn't know this boy, or Scott McCall—

"I'm Stiles," he grins, real big, so big that it makes her want to smile, too, and forget about him knocking her to the ground when she was on her way to her favorite swing. "You're Lydia, right? I see you on the swings a lot. I like the swings, but the merrygoround's the best . . ."

And then he proceeds to talk at her, instead of _to_ her, really, about how cool Batman is, about Scott, about how awesome his dad is because his dad's the _sheriff_ and he's never met Lydia before, and more, for next few minutes, and she lets him, until his friend with the dark hair and soft smile grabs his arm and tugs him away, and she is forgotten.

Lydia smiles after them, and then turns towards the swings. Recess will be over soon, and then she'll have to go to art. Stiles and Scott are in her art class. But so is Jackson. Jackson is mean, but his best friend Danny is nice.

With a stinging arm, and dirtied yellow dress that matches the color of the sunset she'll see after dinner, she goes to the swing. Her smile is as sweet as caramel.

* * *

><p>She sees Stiles around the schoolyard and inside the school more often after that September afternoon, more so in the years following that day. Her time is mostly spent with Erica, Isaac, and Danny.<p>

But when they have joint classes in the gym, or get out of school early so they can go on the playground before all the other kids get out, her friends seem to gravitate towards Stiles, who talks faster than her father can drive and Scott who grins like there's nothing better in the world than this.

First and second grade fly by in a whirl of broken crayons and spilled glue in the back of the classroom; Stiles goes on and on about this or that while he works, and Lydia likes the colors gold and blue. She has a blue ribbon in her hair and a gold colored pencil stain on the white of her skirt by the time she tentatively starts calling Stiles her friend.

(She tells her parents about him at dinner one time; it makes her father's eyes crinkle and her mother tell her not to play in the dirt. She ignores it, though, when she looks at the glass of the stuff her father's holding, because it makes her wonder if his eyes are _really_ that color.)

Stiles talks all the time. He talks to anyone, anything that will look his way and listen for a second, but nobody really tries to shut him up—except for Jackson.

He talks when he's trying to steal her chicken nuggets out from under her nose during lunch, when he follows her so he can push her on the swings, when he and Scott are racing across the monkey bars.

Third and fourth grade go a little bit slower. In third grade, Lydia actually shares the same teacher with Stiles, and for the first time, Scott's not in his class. Stiles, of course, as if by default or autopilot, sits next to her, because Jackson's here too, along with Boyd. Vernon Boyd scares him, and Jackson's still mean.

His voice is always going, except for when the teacher talks, and is soothing, like cool ointment on a harsh cut—a kind smile for a scraped knee.

During their third grade year, it gets easier to listen to him. She can't keep up with him, even though he's on his Adderall (or so he says) but it's easier to nod and smile along sincerely when she's doing her math worksheets or trying to concentrate on reading aloud to her table.

Fourth follows quickly, as does fifth grade, both in a rush of laughter, summer days and smiles. Lydia is now as tall as Stiles, at age eleven, sitting on the swings with the sheriff's son next to her talking softly about how he wishes his mother were here.

She feels something like a glow under her skin, because this is the kind of thing only Scott and Mrs. McCall hear about, and she feels just a bit special, wearing her green dress with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows and her dusty mary janes. No one ever asks about Claudia, but when Stiles talks about her, they listen. It's just the way of things, Lydia supposes.

In May, before elementary graduation, Lydia's father leaves the house. No matter how much she cries when she's at home, and asks where her daddy went, Mrs. Martin tells her that "we're weren't happy any more". Like it's a good enough reason.

Lydia confirms this by going to look under the sink, and finding that the bottle of alcohol (she thinks her mother called it that, but her father's not a drunk, no, he couldn't be) is gone. Without explanation or real reason, he is gone.

She stands with her fifth grade class outside for a picture on the third of June. She hasn't told anyone about it. About her father leaving. About there having been no sign, none at all, from anybody, but Stiles is there to distract her by shoving Batman comics into her face and daring her to read all of them in an hour or else he can come over at any time, any day.

(It's a welcome distraction; she finishes the comics, which were much, well, _more_ than she thought they'd be, in fifty-seven minutes and twenty-eight seconds. The boy with eyes like the stuff her daddy drank and kept under the sink never uttered a word about it. It took until the last day of school for her to be able to smile without feeling like she was going to crack open, right down the middle, and break in half.)

* * *

><p>It's their last summer spent with pure friendship, with no thoughts about social expectations or politics or anything else. All of them: Lydia, Stiles, Scott, Erica, Boyd, Isaac, Danny—sometimes even Jackson—meet up in the park and outside the closed school in the hot sun to play with chalk and talk about how they think they'll forget their locker combinations as soon as they get them when they go to the middle school.<p>

Admittedly, Lydia spends most of the days that she can outside on Stiles' porch, telling him all about the Latin she can already read and the fact that he's going to be horrible at turning in homework while he yells half-hearted comebacks through the screen door as he plots his way through a week's worth of healthy veggie dinners for his father.

The days that she spends with Stiles leaning over her shoulder to squint and frown and "_ugh_" at the things she chooses to read are mixed with the few on which he comes over at six in the morning, while most of the town still sleeps, lets himself in—because by now her mother is used to his appearing out of nowhere, excessively ringing the doorbell, insisting that Lydia come out and see something that he's found by the creek in the woods.

* * *

><p>Things change once they reach sixth grade.<p>

They're in a new school, the middle school, where they are no longer the oldest kids, and the lines blurred between girls and boys who have been friends in elementary are now clear—now electric, in a way that a fence could be. It's strange, how quick the shift is, how it seems to be a scandal now, if you talk to anyone outside your close-knit social circle.

It's a bit unfair, because the kids in their year whisper less about the way Jackson picks Danny for everything when it comes to partners, and more about how the new girl Allison and the Scott are getting along.

Lydia takes to Allison easily, nicely; the girl is a wonder all on her own. Her smile reminds Lydia of soft gold, and the way she looks at Scott when she thinks no one is looking in gym class makes her feel smug.

(It makes her feel like she knows something.)

Somehow, without her really knowing, someone hands her a crown, her mother buys her makeup—and she takes to it like a fish does water. Everyone seems to be her friend. Or wants to be, anyway.

She whizzes through her math, like she always does, and sits with Erica and Allison at lunch on most days, despite her—er, social _position_. (Status. _Whatever_.)

Her classes with her friends are far and few between, but she finds that transitioning into this new place isn't for the best; perhaps it was Allison, or perhaps someone put a curse on her, but sometimes in gym, sometimes in social studies, she'll catch herself staring at the way Stiles chews his pen when he's thinking or absently dribbling a ball—when he's silent for a rare moment.

(His Adderall intake has been rightly adjusted, finally; the boy with eyes like the stuff her father probably still drinks babbles on, but it's less now than it was when they were young and her heart didn't quicken and her chest didn't _oh- -ever-so-slightly_ constrict when he grinned at her in the way that made her want to smile back.)

They are twelve years old, and then thirteen. Middle school turns out to be better than Lydia thought it would; she gets closer to Danny through the math class they share in seventh grade, and there's a mock-lacrosse team that Jackson immediately signs up for. It gives him less time to throw pens and harsh remarks at Scott and Stiles, and they're all happy about it.

(Over the summer, though, Stiles went up north, somewhere—Idaho, Washington, Montana—_somewhere_ she hasn't been before—so she saw less of him as she saw during the summer before middle school started—and since she's never asked for his cell phone number, and he hasn't asked for hers, she failed to keep in touch with him. He comes back in August, a week before school starts.)

Stiles still finds her table at lunch, despite this. He still manages to swipe a carrot, or a fry—something small, something she won't miss—on his way to the lacrosse field outside, with Scott smiling at Allison like she's the sun that warms his skin in the late afternoon before the leaves change color. It makes her smile falter, her spine stiffen as she watches Stiles stumble-saunter his way out of the cafeteria.

At the end of seventh grade, Allison finally figures it out. Which is strange, because Lydia honestly doesn't know what there even _is_ to figure out.

(Quick heartbeats and constricting chests mean _nothing_.)

They're over at Allison's house, pretending to study. Pizza is on its way; they are the only ones home. The other Argents are out, probably back in Vermont, visiting family. Kate's supposed to be here—her wretched, older aunt, but she's not, and Lydia's glad for it. She has never liked Kate.

Somehow, they end up talking about Scott, which leads to Stiles—to which Allison says, "it's inevitable,"

And Lydia asks, "_what_ is?"

Allison smiles, all white teeth and full lips, looking smug. "When we talk about Scott, you tend to end up talking about Stiles."

Lydia bristles, allowing her eyes to rest on the math textbook in her lap without reading what's on the page. "I do not."

"You do," Allison says, leaning forward eagerly. "Come on, Lydia."

Lydia lifts her eyes, and glares.

Allison squeals.

"I knew it!" Allison's laughter is smug; it makes her want to open the window and air out the room.

(Despite her genius abilities, she thinks that, maybe, the smugness could drift out the window.)

"You can't tell him," Lydia warns after a moment, her glare falling. A feeling of tiredness overcomes her for a moment; she doesn't want to have this conversation, she never _did_. Not when she was younger, with her parents still in the room, and not now, with her best friend beside her.

Allison's smile seems to die a bit at the sight of the slight downward motion the corners of her best friend's mouth take.

"You can't tell anyone, Allison. I mean it."

Allison looks ready to say something else, but then the doorbell rings; she gets up to pay the pizza guy his due, plus a tip, and Lydia is saved from talking about the boy whose eyes still remind her of the whiskey her father kept hidden under the sink.

(For now.)

* * *

><p>Eighth grade is when <em>it<em> begins to happen. So, eighth grade is the worst. (So far.)

Lydia is struggling, struggling with keeping her eyes from following Stiles whenever he passes her in the hall or grins at her after he steals some of her lunch.

It's embarrassing, how Allison always gives her this knowing look if she catches her staring as he's walking away, but Stiles doesn't know. Scott doesn't know, and that's good, because if Scott knew, he wouldn't hesitate to tell his best friend that the girl he's known since they were six nearly gets a_ heart attack_ every time he appears out of nowhere, whether if it's at the beginning of class or at her locker—or—or, well, anywhere.

But even though Allison's in love with Scott, and him with her—there is no doubt about it, even though they're only fourteen. They could clearly beat any Disney movie out there right now with their amount of _mushiness _(Danny's words, not hers)—she still hasn't said a word about this, about this unfortunate turn of . . . turn of events.

Eighth grade is spent wondering if high school is as bad (or as good) as they say. Lydia's mind is wandering further and further away from where her friends are in the lunchroom. She thinks about how long it's been since Stiles showed up early on a Saturday morning with some game planned, with the _day_ planned out, for her, Isaac, Danny, and the rest of them.

(It's been a _long_ time.)

Lydia gets asked out for the first (official) time in October by a boy named Aiden, who wears leather like she wears lipstick and reminds her of what Jackson would be like if he wasn't a _complete _asshole (and not into Danny).

She says yes, seeing no reason to say no, and no one treats her any differently for it; maybe it's because it lasts until November when he asks if they can be friends, and she shrugs and smiles sweetly at him and says, "whatever you want," which results in him never sitting by or with her ever again.

(She's not exactly sad about it.)

It's before Thanksgiving Break. They're in art class, learning to thread a needle through paper (they're making _turkeys_), and it occurs to Lydia that everyone's got someone. Out of the blue: Allison and Scott, Danny and Jackson, Erica and Boyd, Isaac and that nice, quiet girl Meredith. Even if most of them aren't even dating yet. It makes her forehead wrinkle at the thought of it, making Stiles give her a raised eyebrow from the seat across from her.

She pretends that she's trying to _not_ think about Stiles, and how it would go if maybe, just maybe, she just _told_ him how she felt, with no skirting around the truth. But she's seen how awkward it gets between two people, where one likes the other and the other doesn't, or they both do, and don't know how to tell each other exactly how they feel until they're a bit older than they are now.

She finds herself at the sink, trying to wash the dried glue from her hands, when _it _first happens.

(In retrospect, she probably could've seen this coming. Allison probably did, though, with the way that things are going so _right_ for her—have been since she arrived in Beacon Hills.)

She's about to turn when she feels someone bump into her, knocking her sideways. She opens her mouth to snap, like she's always done when that happens, but then she sees who it is, and—and she just kind of _stops_.

Stiles is giving her a strange look, with a raised eyebrow, and it takes her a moment to realize that he asked her if she's okay.

Her cheeks grow heated, and she darts away with a snippy "I'm _fine_," before he can say or do anything else. Just below the base of her throat, she can feel the unease creeping in—the one that hits whenever an awkward situation arises.

Moments like that—where she finds herself speechless when he's right in front of her, when a thousand things cross her mind and swarm to her vocal chords but the words dry up in her mouth, bitter tasting on her tongue, and he is left to give her a concerned look as she scurries away after snapping at him that she is _fine_—they continue throughout the year. His appearing out of nowhere is doing worse things for her heart, his grinning at her while stealing her food or making fun of Scott for how lovesick he and Allison are do funny things—make the organ jump in her ribcage, make it feel like it's trying to hide behind her collar bone or behind the hallow of her throat because she just can't _control _it.

In April, Allison is sitting outside on the porch of the Martins' residence; she's giving her a look.

"Lydia," she starts, because Allison always just _knows_—she's been watching ever since that night—but Lydia's not in the mood for it. But she talks anyway.

"You should tell him," Allison says gently.

"Why," it isn't phrased as a question; it's curt, but it isn't vehement, like it should have been. Lydia looks tired.

"You might only get one chance," Allison says slowly, "what if in high school someone comes along and he falls for them? And you lost your chance to tell him how you feel?"

Lydia frowns.

"Come on. What have you got to lose?"

"My friend."

"_Lydia_."

Lydia strands up, abruptly. "I'm getting lemonade," she says, "I'll be right back", which effectively ends the conversation.

Allison is left staring after her, brow creased. But she says nothing of it for the rest of the night.

* * *

><p>It's the summer before high school starts. Her father sends a card—a wedding invitation, actually, letting her know that he's going to marry someone else. She ends up throwing it in the trash the night she gets it. It's the second day of summer when she does. Stiles is downstairs, with Scott and Isaac. She puts on her best smile and exits her room; they can't eat all her mother's ice cream, or else they'll never be let inside the house again.<p>

(A boy with eyes like the alcohol she thinks her mother keeps somewhere in the kitchen and a smile like melted chocolate is sitting on her living room couch; she pretends that there's no smile that was because of _him _that she has to carefully adjust before she reaches the bottom of the stairs.)

Allison is in France during the summer, with her family, so Lydia spends some of her time with Danny and Erica. Sometimes, with Scott and Stiles, but she keeps doing that _thing_—where it's like she has to say something, like she has something she's _supposed _to say—and it's gotten to the point where Stiles is now _waiting_ for a response—just waiting patiently, for her to either snap at him or for her to let the words she's had rolling around in her head for _ages _dance off her tongue and slip between the spaces of her bottom teeth and into the air in front of him, plain as day for him and the rest of the world to see.

More than once, she's laughed off red cheeks and clammy hands and blamed it on the summer heat.

Allison texts Lydia throughout the summer, regardless of what time it is for her and what time the strawberry blonde receives the texts. They're mostly about Stiles.

Lydia spends some of her nights lying out in the front yard, letting the dew seep into her nightshirt and shorts and the cool, quiet air wash over her like a wave does over its beach. She breathes in the smell of cut grass while texting Allison, or sits on the porch swing with a book of Archaic Latin propped up on her knees.

She spends as little time as possible with Stiles without it actually looking like she's trying to avoid him.

Scott catches on, though.

(Someone was bound to sometime.)

"Are you sure you're okay?" Scott asks her, in late June, because she's feeling like her heart's trying to jump out of her chest and run straight to Stiles. Her stomach is filled with nervous butterflies while she tries to keep her cool when he grins at her in the way that makes her think of when they first met.

(When she wanted to smile back at him after he had crashed into her and she had ended up with some scrapes.)

"I'm fine," Lydia tells him, even though she knows he means well. Because that's what she's been telling everyone: her mother, when she found the invitation to the wedding in the trash; Allison, every other day when she brings up Stiles; _Stiles_, because of course _he_ found the invitation in the trash—and knows that, deep inside Lydia's chest, it stings something fierce, because the man's never even sent a Christmas card her way.

And now Scott. She doesn't need Scott asking that, no matter how good his intentions might be.

(Whomever the next person is that asks her if she's okay, she might just tell them what she's been forbidding Allison to talk about for so long now that it's a wonder no one's overheard them talking about it in the first place.)

Scott gives her this _look_, like he _knows_ she's lying—like she should just come clean and tell him—but it's his best friend. It's _Stiles_ that's got her insides all knotted up and her heart beating a mile a minute half an hour after he's smiled at her like she's the greatest friend anyone could ever have.

But he doesn't push it. She's glad.

The Fourth of July is wild. Jackson and Danny set off fireworks. Stiles isn't allowed near them—or any kind of explosive that the day could offer him, sheriff's orders—and Lydia hates that Allison isn't here with her.

She hangs back, away from the boys, and the rest of the group she feels like she should be cheering with as the fireworks go off. Erica finds her in the middle of the finale and ends up tugging her into the small crowd, making her smile earnestly at the girl who now is standing next to Boyd.

Everyone's eyes are on the sky as the explosions of the colored sparks fill their vision, but Lydia is very, _very_ aware of the fact that Stiles seems to have unknowingly, probably subconsciously, come up beside her. Between the beginning of eighth grade and now, she notices, he's shot up a few inches.

(It's hard, trying not to stare, with her heart beating loud in her ears, butterflies alive inside her gut, but she manages.)

(In the midst of the glow from high above, Lydia remembers something her mother once told her. "You know what they say. Home is where the heart is, sweetheart." It comes unbidden and unwanted, but when she chances a glance at the boy next to her, something deep in the chasm of her chest twinges painfully. She swears never to think of it ever again.)

When the fireworks are over, she tries to leave by herself, but then Stiles throws an arm around her shoulders and proclaims that he will be a knight in shining armor just for her and proceeds to walk her home, with Scott, Isaac, and Erica talking as they trail behind them, saying their good-nights to Danny, Matt, and even Jackson. Surprisingly.

They leave her staring after them on her front porch. Seeing Stiles flail and nearly fall over at something (probably about Allison) Scott says to him makes her turn away, so in case one of them turned back, they wouldn't see her smile.

It's one o'clock when she finally falls asleep on top of her covers, and is woken up some time later by the chirping of a phone; she's gotten a text.

NEW TEXT MESSAGE  
>FROM: ALLISON<br>RECIEVED: 4:03AM

**_HAPPY 4TH OF JULY. TELL STILES "JE T'AIME" ALREADY._**

Lydia blinks blearily at the text, rereads a few times, and then sits bolt upright in bed, furiously rubbing the sleep from her eyes, and then types—hitting the 'send' button without really thinking about what it is that she sent.

NEW TEXT MESSAGE  
>TO: ALLISON:<br>SENT: 4:06AM

**_I NEVER SAID I LOVED HIM._**

Her phone chirps again, and she scowls, pressing the down-sound button until the transparent "muted sound" icon pops up on her screen. She squints at the text message, blinking rapidly to clear her vision, but her eyes are threatening to close. She doesn't remember being this exhausted when she came home, but—

NEW TEXT MESSAGE  
>FROM: ALLISON<br>RECEIVED: 4:08AM

**_JFC YOU NEVER HAD TO._**

Lydia tosses her phone somewhere in the direction of her closet in response, and buries her face in her pillow; she cannot _love_ the boy whose eyes remind her of the stuff her parents think they hide so well in the house, whose smiles make her feel like her insides are of melting snow. To _love_ him—

A sound of frustration makes it past her lips and gets buried in the fabric of her pillow, her despair mixing with the desire to sleep as she says one word into her pillow before her body relaxes again and her eyes shut of their own accord,

_"Why."_

* * *

><p>High school has homework loads that are surprisingly light for what the teachers in middle school told them.<p>

Allison has more classes with Lydia than she does with anyone else, and that's something of a relief, except for the fact that she insists on texting Lydia in French about _exactly_ what she thinks she should do about this whole _thing_.

(Lydia ignores her, as best she can, which means she just glares at her best friend a lot.)

Scott and Stiles sign up to join the lacrosse team their freshmen year. The team captain is Derek Hale, whom Stiles continuously calls "sourworf" when he's off the field. They make it on the team, which is surprising, for freshmen, _these_ freshmen especially, as do Danny and Jackson.

A new girl named Kira arrives in mid-September. Her awkward demeanor, kind smile, and bright eyes make Allison pull her towards their table at lunch, and instantly, she's a friend to all their friends.

Lydia thinks she's a bit of a klutz, but that's really the only thing about her that bugs her. She gets along well with the boys, and everyone else, despite the fact that her father happens to be one of the teachers at Beacon Hills High School.

(Not many would choose to be friends with a teacher's son or daughter. It—you just don't generally _do_ it.)

Their freshmen year passes them by smoothly, except for the fact that this whole _thing_—with Stiles—has only gotten worse.

In January, she stutters.

He catches her looking at him, and she tries to speak with her burning cheeks—without the cover of summer to hide the way her hands clutch anxiously at the strap of her bag—but nothing coherent comes out.

And it's just so _unlike_ her. She is Lydia Martin. She is _always sure_. She always knows what she's going to say—but Stiles is looking at her like she grew a second head, which would be better than trying to explain why she can't form a _sentence_ while he waits patiently for her to.

(Stiles and the word _patience_ are two things that should never share the same sentence. But they do.)

Her heart races as she makes her escape—mutters some bullshit about Allison and Kira waiting for her out in the parking lot outside the school—and spends the rest of the year doing two things, with Allison giving her disapproving looks and nosy texts and Kira giving her bewildered looks when she and Allison have their secret conversations through jaw clenching and prodding:

One: Lydia pretends like it never happened. Two: she actively avoids Stiles at all costs; she may go to his lacrosse practices, but she says she goes to make sure nothing happens to Allison while she watches her boyfriend.

(The strawberry blonde makes a note of how she has the urge to cheer when Stiles actually makes it past Jackson and gets a goal. This whole thing is maddening.)

* * *

><p>Allison takes her to France that summer, away from the boys and their friends and her mother who still thinks that her daughter doesn't know about the whiskey she tries to keep hidden from her. But Erica and Boyd are somewhere in Florida, Scott and Stiles are always 'just fine' in Beacon Hills, Kira is with her family in upstate New York, and Danny is somewhere with Jackson, so it's okay. Over the summer, they receive texts from Scott and Stiles about meeting the Hale family.<p>

Apparently, there's Laura—the oldest—Derek, who's a senior now—and Cora, who's their age. And, of course, their parents, and their creepy uncle Peter—and the messages they wake up to have them doubling over from laughing.

But that's when they're not talking about Stiles. (Not when _Allison_ talks to Lydia about Stiles, knowing that she's listening, even though she pretends otherwise.)

"You need to tell him," Allison says, "you never know what his reaction will be."

Lydia gives her a flat look. The sun is filtering in through the trees above them; they're sitting on the grass in a park a few blocks away from Allison's grandparents' complex. Around ten o'clock, Allison had introduced Lydia to a childhood friend that she thinks she might've mentioned once or twice in middle school, who spoke fluent English with a glint in his eye and an earnest smile. They'd spent the rest of the morning in a café, with Lydia's eyes straying down to her phone.

(Lydia has dated two boys in all her life, both in middle school. Both times, her heart wasn't in it, and it wasn't in this either.)

Rejection is one of the many things that Lydia will not talk about if Stiles has anything to do with the conversation.

If it were _anyone_ else, she wouldn't be worried—wouldn't hesitate in the _slightest_—but this is _Stiles_.

Stiles, the boy with eyes the color of the whiskey Allison once stole out of the liquor cabinet in Beacon Hills during their seventh grade holiday break to taste while her family was out and the smile that's surely to die for. Stiles, the boy who makes her insides twist and knot up, makes it feel like there's something fluttering around in her ribcage for how her heart _races_ when she finds herself caught like a deer in headlights when words dry up on her tongue.

(All a confused Stiles gets is an unordinary speechless Lydia.)

And it's not rejection—not the thought of it—that makes her clam up.

To be honest, she thinks it's all just him—every bit of him makes the words dissipate before they have a chance to spill from her lips—and, _good_, because she'd be dead from mortification if they did.

It's days like these, with a cool breeze on a sweet June day, that make Lydia want to change into a yellow sundress, find a swing, and envision what it would be like to be a bird.

(Would she be a white dove, a gliding hawk, a soaring falcon? Stiles would be a waddling quail. Most likely.)

"Lydia," Allison prompts.

"I can't tell him," Lydia tells her. It's what she _always _tells Allison. It's a wonder that nobody's found the text messages from Allison on her phone, ranting and raving about how _awesome_ it would be if Lydia came clean about her feelings for Stiles and how _happy_ Stiles would be—because he'd say _yes_.

(As if.)

"Yes, you can, you just don't want to. Also. You being completely in love with him would be cute, but. You should just tell him. Tell him in French. All you have to say is _je t'aime_."

Lydia sputters; Allison holds up a hand.

"Come _on_, Lyds. You know that people are going to catch on eventually, right? They might tell Stiles. _I_ might tell Stiles _for_ you, if you don't hurry it up."

(She is only half-joking; she thinks Lydia should be kissing the laughter right out of that Stilinski boy's lungs, but she's not, and it makes her forehead wrinkle and evil, evil plans come to mind as a result.)

She gapes. _Gapes_ at the implications, no, at what Allison is _clearly_ saying to her with a smile on her face like she thinks what Stiles unknowingly does to her best friend's insides is _funny_. Which it isn't.

(It's _terrible_.)

"Besides, we're all slowly catching on. Like, I think Isaac, Erica, and Matt have some idea."

Lydia opens her mouth to respond, because she has been _careful_, always, and that cannot be _true_, but then her phone buzzes, and she looks down to check the screen;

NEW TEXT MESSAGE  
>FROM: STILES<br>RECEIVED: 2:09PM

**_HEY HOW'S FRANCE? HAS A MIME CHASED YOU AROUND PARIS YET BECAUSE SCOTT AND I HAVE A BET._**

Lydia snorts through her nose at the text. Without hesitation, Allison snatches her phone up and squints at the text. She grins, and hands back her phone.

It's ass-o-clock back home. What's he doing up?

Her phone buzzes. Allison tries to snatch it away, but Lydia holds it out and away from her so she can read it first.

NEW TEXT MESSAGE  
>FROM: STILES<br>RECEIVED: 2:11PM

**_LYDIA. LYDIA THIS IS VERY VERY IMPORTANT OK YOU NEED TO TELL ME BC IF YOU GET CHASED AROUND BEFORE THE FOURTH OF JULY SCOTT HAS TO BUY ME A PIZZA AND I GET TO SAY I TOLD YOU SO._**

The phone buzzes again before she can tap out a reply;

NEW TEXT MESSAGE  
>FROM: STILES:<br>RECEIVED: 2:12PM

**_ALSO DEREK SAID HE'LL PAY ME TEN BUCKS IF IT HAPPENS BC HE DOESN'T BELIEVE MIMES CHASING PRETTY GIRLS AROUND PARIS IS A THING. ALLISON'S COUSIN TOLD ME IT'S A THING. LYDIA I NEED TO WIN THIS. IF A MIME SHOWS UP, SEND PROOF ASAP._**

And again:

NEW TEXT MESSAGE  
>FROM: STILES<br>RECEIVED: 2:14PM

**_ALSO GET YOUR ASS HOME SO WE CAN HAVE A WATER GUN FIGHT. ARGUING IS NOT AN OPTION._**

Lydia laughs; the sound is light, clear, loud.

Visions of blue and yellow sundresses from when she was a child fill her lucid dreams that night, and she wakes up with pale morning light streaming in through the window and a bad taste in her mouth. A text has been waiting for her.

NEW TEXT MESSAGE  
>FROM: STILES<br>RECEIVED: 7:42AM

**_I WAS SERIOUS ABOUT THE MIME THING LYDIA._**

* * *

><p>Sophomore year comes around, and the thing Allison's been warning Lydia about for<em>ever<em> finally comes around:

Malia Hale. Or Malia Tate. Malia Hale-Tate.

She's Derek's cousin, but that doesn't mean much to him; in the first week of school, it becomes painfully obvious to everyone that Malia is not close to the family, and probably hasn't ever met them, from the look of things. But Derek said something to Scott in passing about her parents having a divorce, so she moved here—of all places.

When Lydia sees Malia Hale-Tate walk down the hallway, the first thing she does is smile. Because when there's a new kid in Beacon Hills, you're generally not supposed to do anything unfriendly as soon as you see them.

(_Generally_.)

Lydia doesn't know how it happens. It's October already, and she's slowly—slowly—_slowly_—working up the courage to talk to Stiles. She's trying to sort through the words she could use, the things she could say to him—and when she talks about it with Allison, who's now driving and has her heart set on making Lydia as happy as can be via plotting exactly how Lydia is going to tell Stiles _exactly_ how she feels about him—how she's felt about them since they were small—her best friend's eyes are always bright.

(She can't believe she started talking about, actually _talking _about fessing up to the whiskey-eyed boy who's had her heart practically since the day she met him.)

They're in their math class. Stiles is talking to Lydia, smiling real big—not quite like he used to, not in the way that makes her want smile back with everything that she's got—but in enough a way that her eyes, ever so often, stray to his mouth.

(Oh, _god_.)

He doesn't even notice—he just talks, with his bright eyes, his hands, his mouth—and this isn't awkward, like it sometimes is. He's talking to her, about Harris—about having some bullshit detention because he came up with a _really awesome_ joke and Harris just didn't _get_ it—when Malia comes in.

He doesn't pay her any mind, but Lydia does. Malia has been here since the beginning of school, and still looks a bit lost as she stands just inside the doorway. She hates math Lydia remembers her saying once, so she turns from Stiles, who sputters, because, _hey_, he was _trying_ to explain the joke, and smiles.

"You can sit in front of me," Lydia offers, gesturing to the empty seat in front of her, which is second to the front. Greenberg usually sits there, but he comes to class as late as he can—which is ten, maybe fifteen minutes at the most. Where the boy goes, nobody knows, but—

"Thanks," Malia replies, revealing white teeth in a smile that Lydia can genuinely return because Stiles is tugging on the sleeve of her shirt and she feels _good_.

If Allison could see her now—

"Lydia, _Lyd**i**_-ugh_, come on_, I was about to get to the Batman part," he gripes at her, sticking out his lower lip in a poor imitation of a pout—or a puppy. Either were acceptable in this case.

But then the bell rings, and he does the thing with his hands where it's a "god_dammit_all" shoved into the tips of his fingers. He rights himself down in his seat, right behind her, as they wait for the teacher to call roll.

Malia turns in her seat, and faces Lydia.

"What was the homework from Friday?"

Lydia frowns. "You didn't get it?"

From behind her, Stiles snorts. "It's in the right hand corner of the board," he supplies, and then adds, "Lydia thinks not doing your homework is a betrayal to all mankind. Or something."

Malia smiles, _really_ smiles, and peers around Lydia to get a better look at the boy behind her.

"Thanks," she says, and just _looks_ at him for a moment, before turning around in her seat, and pulling her notebook out of her backpack.

Lydia's not sure how it just happened—but what Allison has been talking about for years now _has _hjust happened.

(A girl has found the boy with whiskey eyes and a smile that would melt the North Pole if he let it.)

The next few days are like that: Malia asks to borrow pens, erasers, highlighters—Lydia thinks they're horribly useless and also thinks that she should tell Malia as much but never speaks up—and, somehow, Lydia is pushed into Greenberg's old seat, and Malia is in hers.

It continues on like that. Malia joins cross-country. She meets Matt and Allison. Then, she officially is introduced to Kira and all the rest of them a few days later on a sunny Thursday.

Lydia watches Malia out of the corner of her eye. She smiles at her little quirks, how earnest and blunt she is, but she sees the way she looks at Stiles. Looks at him like he's slowly worming his way into her ribcage, settling comfortably in her lungs. She does her best to ignore it.

It works, until the day before Halloween, when she sees that Stiles grins at Malia like he used to grin at Lydia when they were very, very small, and her body never betrayed her to the complete _mess_ of feelings that resided under her skin.

Allison sees right through the faux, cheery smiles Lydia gives when Malia and Stiles sit together, when Malia laughs at something Stiles said—because Allison was _right_, and—and if she likes Stiles, so _what_? Stiles is likable.

The only person who can _not_ like Stiles is Jackson.

* * *

><p>At lunch, in December, Allison and Lydia are by themselves at their usual table, talking, while Kira is turned towards another table, talking with Isaac and Matt, when Malia comes over, smiling a smile Lydia is positive she's only ever seen on Allison's (and maybe Jackson's, because of Danny) face.<p>

"Hey," Allison says, smiling, because Allison genuinely likes Malia. Lydia is trying her best, she really is, but even Scott is giving her strange looks whenever her tone takes on an undercurrent of curtness when Malia is sitting next or standing close to Stiles and she's expected to say something then.

"I have a question for the both of you, since you've known Stiles the longest," Malia says, plopping herself down. Her eyes are bright and determined. A sinking feeling takes hold of the strawberry blonde, but she pretends like it isn't there. Pretends she doesn't know what's coming. When she and her best friend do. They have since the moment Malia came in through the front doors of the high school and asked where her cousin Derek Hale was.

"Actually, Lydia has," Allison says, her smile shrinking a little when the words slip easily out of her mouth.

She may genuinely like Malia, but her best friend's feelings come first in this matter. Always.

"Oh, good," Malia turns to Lydia. "So, do you think I should ask him out?"

Lydia's eyes grow wide.

It's a question she's never wanted to hear—a question she can't believe someone just _asked_ her. About Stiles.

(She clutches at her dress to keep her hands from quaking.)

"I mean, Kira said I should ask you guys about it, but I figured it would be easier just to straight up ask him out myself."

Allison's smile has been momentarily wiped from her face. Eyes from the table Kira's attention has been directed at are on Lydia, waiting. Waiting, because she hasn't exactly been _stealthy_ and although she's tried her hardest to hide it a few of their friends have _some_ inkling of what's going on inside her head.

(To her utter dismay and discomfort, but they never say anything. She's glad for it.)

Lydia musters up a tight smile, the best one that she can, and tries her best to keep her voice from cracking when she says, "go for it."

Malia grins, all teeth, jumps up, and jogs away with a spring in her step.

(God, oh god, _why_.)

Lydia is aware that something, deep inside her chest cavity, is cracking. She feels an arm come around her shoulders, and she sucks in a wobbly breath. Her eyes sting.

Allison says nothing, at first, as her best friend turns into her embrace, and buries her face in her shoulder. She makes soft, soothing sounds as she rubs her back.

Kira is staring. Matt's staring after Malia, looking—well, for lack of a better word, bewildered. Isaac has left the vicinity; he left in the opposite direction the young Hale went.

No one who witnessed this even won't say anything about it—about how Allison leads her to the bathroom ten minutes later to clean off and redo her makeup for her, to get rid of the running mascara on her cheeks. She speaks softly in French to Lydia, kind and comforting with the way the language rolls of her tongue. She sounds exactly like she is: born in France, moved to America when she was naught but seven.

Although Allison was right all along, this is no time for saying "I told you so".

* * *

><p>Seeing them together as the months go by is hard.<p>

Stiles said yes to Malia. The day after the fact, he'd arrived at school swinging her hand back and forth between them, like a pendulum.

Lydia had excused herself form their typical morning conversation to go cry in the bathroom, with Erica and Allison close at her heels, saying something about 'girl stuff' so Scott, Jackson, Danny, and Boyd—and whoever else might or might not know (Scott definitely doesn't know)—won't ask about it.

In retrospect, Lydia knows that Allison was right all along—and she hadn't listened.

Well, she had, but she hadn't heeded her words.

Malia and Stiles are close whenever they can be, which is often. Seeing them kiss each other hello in the halls makes her clench her hands into fists, so her eyes won't sting with unshed tears. Seeing him lean close to her in math when she doesn't understand and asks for help, seeing them together _in general_ makes her want to run screaming from the room. But she doesn't. She keeps up the cheery façade, even though Matt, Isaac, Kira, and Allison all see right through it. They say nothing about how unhappy Lydia truly is, when she is forced to sit at the same table at lunch as them, when she has to see them together at all.

No one utters a word, and she has never been more thankful for her friends.

They're happy, though. Despite the ever-deepening fissures in her chest, Lydia sees them for what they are: _happy_. And Lydia had her chance. For ten _years_, she's had her chance—dating all the way back to when she first met him on the playground. Allison's been telling her, and telling her, and _telling_ her.

And Lydia hadn't _listened_.

May rolls around, and it's gotten a little easier to deal with. Only a little, though.

By now, Malia and Stiles know each other well enough to be a little annoyed with the other. It should make Lydia gleeful, but it just makes her feel a little bit empty on the inside, like everything that was isn't quite there anymore.

(When she thinks to herself _it's not fair_ she pinches her wrist to remind herself that the only one at fault here is herself.)

They talk to her like she knows Matt, Isaac, and Kira won't. They talk to her in the way that they do because they, along with nearly everyone they know, _don't_ know that Stiles still gives her near heart attacks when he appears out of nowhere, stumbling over his undone shoelaces in a hurry to tell Lydia whatever he saw or said or did or did not do as fast as he possibly can.

Finals are in a few weeks, and Lydia is trying to study when Stiles comes to her with a sour look on his face. Giving him a tight smile, she asks him what's wrong.

He gladly takes the seat across from her—because this is the table they've always sat at when they go to the library—and starts talking about lacrosse, about how much he wants Jackson to face plant in the mud so he can laugh his ass of at him.

(He always wants to laugh at Jackson, though, so that's nothing new.)

He talks about how Scott has gotten better than him—at lacrosse—when they are supposed to _forever_ be the literal terrible twosome—and then he starts talking about Malia.

"She's just really grabby, is all," he complains in his best library voice. Lydia is having trouble keeping the agitation off her face; instead, she glances up at him every few sentences from the textbook she's not really reading anymore. "I mean—yeah, and she just has this _thing_. And she wants to _do it_ all the time, okay, I am not some superhuman. Sarcasm is my only defense. It's all I have, and let me tell you something: it does _not_ improve stamina. Or anything else for that matter . . ." he trails off, because he realizes she hasn't said anything.

Lydia looks up at him, not sure she heard the implication right.

In a careful, quiet voice, she asks slowly, "you two are having _sex_?"

Stiles shrugs. "Yeah. I guess so." Like it's nothing. Like it's the normal thing in the world. Having sex—with Malia—and talking about it—with Lydia—is—is—

Lydia wants to run to Allison and be assured—wants to be lied to—that everything's going to be okay. But she just kind of looks at Stiles.

"Don't give me that, I know—don't worry, there's all sorts of condoms and pills, don't _worry_," he says, and that's partially the reason why she's giving him the flat look that she is. Partially. "But—it's just—she's _grabby_, and, don't get me wrong, grabbing is hella fun. I love grabbing. But—_come on, _I have things to study for. And she thinks I'm wrong—all the time, on stuff like English, and history—and, Lyds," he says, lowering his voice to a hiss, talking to her like she's _Scott_—and she is reminded for the umpteenth (billionth?) time that he has _no clue_—and oh god, is Stiles _okay_?

She's about to fire a round of questions at him, but she never gets a chance to.

A shout of "Stiles!" comes from the far end of the library; Stiles and Lydia turn in their seats to see Scott coming towards him.

He leaves her staring after him, mouth partially open. She's a little worried, more than shocked—and she just—she _can't_.

She sends Allison a text, and ten minutes later her friend is sitting where Stiles was, listening to Lydia retell everything that Stiles said with a horrified expression on her face.

A few days later, Malia finds her outside, waiting for Allison to come out so they can go to her house, eat lots of chocolate desserts, and watch 90's films.

"Can we talk?" Malia asks.

"No," Lydia says, surprising herself, because _faking civility _might as well be her middle name nowadays. She's just—she's _tired _of it, really.

"Oh," Malia says, and is silent for a moment before doing what she always does—continuing on. "Well, it's about Stiles."

Of course it is, Lydia thinks bitterly, but says nothing. Of _course_ it's about Stiles.

(Reminds herself that she _had her chance_, all the chances in the world, and she didn't take a single one.)

"He doesn't really do anything fun. I mean, he does lacrosse, but . . ."

Lydia doesn't mean to, she really doesn't, but she ends up tuning Malia out until Allison shows up, excuses the both of them, and they make a run for it.

Lydia _hates_ her sophomore year.

* * *

><p>(Lydia likes to pretend that she doesn't think about Stiles having sex. In all her years, she never would have thought he would have lost his virginity before she did. She does her very best not to think about it, about the conversation they had, which they never speak of again, but it sits in her mind like a landmine, covered over by a layer of dust. Waiting to be discovered, so it can be set off.)<p>

* * *

><p>Over the summer, Malia and Stiles break up.<p>

Then they get back together.

Lydia cries in Allison's bedroom for what must be the fifth time since January, and accepts the tub of coffee-flavored, fancy French stuff that no one else in Beacon Hills seems to have. They end up cleaning the makeup completely from her face, and spend the rest of the night painting each other's nails while playing _The Breakfast Club_ before passing out on the couch.

By July, Allison has nearly succeeded in talking her grandparents into letting her and Lydia come to France again.

But Victoria Argent says no, and they spend as much time away from Stiles as Allison's love for Scott will allow—which isn't very long, but it's the thought and effort that count.

Stiles and Malia seem to smile less when they are together by the time mid-July comes around, and Lydia is still miserable.

(But she makes herself stay quiet. She _had her chance_. She knows this.)

Matt asks her if she wants to talk about it, after a movie night at Allison's house, when Malia and Stiles had sat apart from each other the entire time, with Scott and Kira as buffers.

Matt is good with pictures, telling stories with framed photographs bathed in black and white and shades of gray and green and brown and burgundy, but she hasn't known him well enough to take the penny for her thoughts; she declines with a smile, and a sincere thank-you.

(Again, she is glad for her friends.)

By the time summer comes to a close, Stiles and Malia are back to cuddling on couches and holding hands and kissing each other as much as possible, and the ache inside Lydia's chest has dulled to an ever-present _thing_ that rests just below the surface.

(If she doesn't think about it, she won't feel the sting for a few hours; television is wonderful like that.)

* * *

><p>Everything seems to happen in their junior year.<p>

On the first day of school, Lydia goes in with Allison, Isaac, Matt, and Erica. Behind them is Kira, Boyd, Malia, Stiles, Danny, Jackson, and, surprisingly enough, Cora Hale. And behind them, she thinks she can hear Aiden and Ethan laughing about something with a girl named Caitlyn and her girlfriend.

(Derek is a senior now, a permanent lacrosse team captain until he graduates. Jackson hasn't shut up about it since he got the news, apparently.)

It's easier, this year. The ache dulls itself to the point where she feels like it isn't actually _there_, but that's because Lydia only has one class with Stiles, and that's her AP literature class. Malia has just as many classes—art—and Lydia has more classes with Matt, Kira, and Erica this year than she does with Scott, Isaac, Boyd, and Danny.

The first few months easily pass them. Their lunch tables remain a mixture of familiar faces, while Lydia schools her features enough so Isaac and Kira don't look at her more than twice when Malia and Stiles sit across from her. Only Allison knows to look at her out of the corner of her eye, never believing the cheery smile coupled with the half-hearted laughter for half a second.

Early lacrosse try outs start—pre-try out try outs, is what Stiles and Scott call them.

It's how they meet Liam.

Liam Dunbar is a freshmen, but a kind one. He's good at lacrosse, says Stiles—like, _crazy_ good. "A were-a-cheetah," Stiles had proclaimed when Liam had passed their table at lunch the day after the try outs, poking him in the arm, "that's what you are, a goddamn _were-a-cheetah_."

Liam looks uncomfortable, until Allison throws a curly fry at Stiles.

Scott makes room on the bench for Liam, and he sits. They start talking to him, while talking amongst themselves—and it's nice, Lydia thinks, to have someone new, a fresh face, one that doesn't know a single thing about any of the juniors here.

Lacrosse season starts, and everyone is at the first home game. It's a wonder, really, seeing the boys—and Kira—on the field. Their movements are fluid, swift, and sure. Even Stiles seems to have honed his skills somewhat since the last time Lydia saw him on the field. Derek and Scott work together like they've been playing lacrosse side-by-side for years, and she can't say that she's surprised when they score the winning goal and Allison holds her tight in a sudden, enthusiastic hug.

Lydia's smiling the whole way through, even though Malia is in the next row of stands below her, cheering, waving at Stiles, who's too busy clapping Scott on the back and making faces at Jackson in the process to notice any of the spectators.

Things go well, despite the way Lydia avoids Stiles like the plague—which is easier now than it was before—and how his accidental jump-scares get to her more and more as the time passes them by, until December.

Allison's aunt Kate is killed in a car accident somewhere in Europe, but she doesn't go to the funeral. They spend the day in a strange, eerie mood. (Allison isn't all that sorry. The same can be said about Lydia and Scott. Nobody never really liked her—not even Chris Argent.)

Scott's dad makes an appearance the day after that. With his FBI status and his "I'm sorry, son" bullshit that Scott will not, under any circumstance, stand for, moods begin to drop low. (He comes to school bitter, but returns to his old self in a few days after Agent McCall leaves.)

And then Malia gets word from Derek that she's going to be moving in with her mom—far, far away from Beacon Hills, and Lydia can't quite believe what she's hearing as she sees the look of confusion cross Stiles' features.

"Wait—_what_?"

Malia hardly looks apologetic as she repeats herself, and then goes into detail. She's headed for the east coast, with little chance of coming back.

At the end of their conversation, Stiles walks away from a mystified looking Malia, who eventually shrugs and continues on with the rest of her day—as if—as if it all meant _nothing_.

To her knowledge, Stiles and Malia don't speak again. Not in any way, shape, or form.

* * *

><p>A week later, Stiles shows up at the Martin residence looking for Lydia. Mrs. Martin invites him in and tells him Lydia's up in her room.<p>

Lydia doesn't get a chance to tell him she's busy when she sees the way he's wringing his hands. She sits up on her bed when he closes her bedroom door and begins to pace.

"I need to talk to you," he says, sounding distant—sounding like he's far, far away from her.

"Okay . . ."

"But I can't talk to Scott, because he has Allison, and vice versa, and . . . I need to talk to you about Malia, Lydia, I really do."

"Okay." This time, she swallows. Tries not to go for her phone to text Allison to send a rescue squad, and succeeds by clutching her pillow to her chest.

"Look—I just—I don't feel all that bad, you know? I mean, yeah, we dated for a while—a long while—but it felt nice, you know, like a really, _really_ cozy friendship. With sex."

He is unaware of the look that flits across her features, but it's is gone before he could even hope to glimpse it.

"But she just said that, like it was nothing. She went and left, like—like it was all okay. And it's not, you know? I'm not sad—no tears, okay—but it's just—how do you do that? I thought she would have the decency to act sorry, or something, or you know, _be_ sorry."

He halts, and then looks at her. Their eyes lock.

(Her breath catches somewhere in her chest.)

"I—I probably should have called first," he says, rubbing the back of his neck—as if he suddenly remembers—as if it's only _just_ occurred to him—that he's pretty much invited himself into her house, without notice, to talk about Malia.

_Malia_, who swept up the boy first, who saw something she wanted, and was able to _do_ something about, who—

"It's fine," Lydia says—and she suddenly has a vision of him as a child, with a near-shaved head and eyes bright like the burning sun, because she remembers telling him the same when she was just as young.

"Hey, um—have I been acting like a, um—douche?"

Lydia does a double take, because, _what?_

"It's just—I haven't seen you, or talked to you, or hung out with you, in, like, forever, Lydia. We haven't done a movie night by ourselves, or studied, or worked on a project together—we haven't done that in forever. And—just tell me, okay. Be brutal. Be honest—brutally honest."

Lydia blinks slowly. "No," she starts, but then he starts pacing again.

"Allison mentioned you were going through something," he says, and because he says _that_, he has her rapt attention (like he didn't have it _before_), "when me and Malia started dating—or somewhere around that time. I mean, your makeup was smudged, Lydia—and it's always perfect, okay, you're _good_ at makeup."

Yes, she thinks wryly. She's _exceptionally _good at makeup, according to her mother.

He stops to catch his breath, and then resumes, never taking his eyes off of her.

"I wanted to ask you about it," he said, "you just seemed really out of it—really sad, even though you weren't—and I don't want you to tell me, if you don't want to, but I—I haven't been there for you. At all."

Stiles halts, looking upset. "I'm sorry."

Lydia wants to laugh and cry, hysterically, because—because—

She has been _avoiding him as much as possible_, for as long as she can be bothered to remember—and he—and he—

Lydia stands up, crossing her arms over her chest. Gives him a flat look. "It wasn't your fault," she tells him, even though she can already feel herself regretting the words coming out of her mouth "you didn't ignore me."

Stiles opens his mouth, but then she speaks—and how she wishes that she _hadn't_.

"_I_ was avoiding _you_." She says it like he's stupid, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

His eyes widen.

She does regret them now. So very, very much.

"_Avoiding_ me? Why?" he asks after a moment. He's looking at her like she caught him off guard.

Lydia opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. The words Allison prepared for her ages ago have withered away from resting on her tongue, at the back of her skull for so long. _Too_ long.

Stiles steps forward, brow furrowed. "Lydia?"

"Get out," she finds herself saying—mind on autopilot, putting up a wall—"go home, Stiles."

After a moment of staring at her, with incredulity and hurt mixed into one expression, he leaves.

She collapses back onto her bed as soon as she hears the front door downstairs slam shut.

_Why_.

* * *

><p>"You <em>idiot<em>," Allison hisses over the phone, and in minutes, she's over at the Martin residence. Barges right in, and goes up to Lydia's room.

"You're an idiot," she repeats, plopping herself down on the bed—trying not to shake her fists angrily at her best friend, who looks as miserable as she's been for the past—well, _past_.

"I know," Lydia says numbly.

Allison grabs her by the shoulders, shakes her until she's looking her in the eye, and, for good measure, shakes her again.

"You're going to tell Stiles Stilinski that you've been madly in love with him since you met him, or, so help me I will lock you both in the Hale's basement. I'll get Cora to help. Laura will get Derek to help. You know she will."

Lydia opens her mouth to protest, but no sound comes out.

Allison is triumphant, but knows this will take time.

(It's fine. She's waited this long; what's seven to eight more weeks?)

* * *

><p>Allison lets two months slide by, but now Stiles is avoiding Lydia at all costs, instead of it being the other way around. It's like it was before, but more painfully obvious. Scott notices. Everyone in their social circle notices it. The few times he tries to ask her what he did wrong, what happened, asks her if she's <em>okay<em>, she snaps at him, like she did when she was small, in a yellow sundress and her favorite mary janes.

March arrives, and Allison has _had_ it.

So she dupes them both. With the help of Scott, Liam, Isaac, and Kira. And Cora. Cora volunteers.

Mostly it just includes a lot of being covert (and being _successful_ at being covert).

It goes like this:

Allison sends Lydia a text, telling her to meet her out on the lacrosse field, after school, around four. Scott does the same thing with Stiles. They're sent early on during the day, and when each passes their friends in the hall, they act as if nothing's the matter—as if they all haven't got something stuck up their sleeve.

(They do, though.)

There's no practice of any kind today; rain has soaked the field to the point where Lydia has lost her a shoe twice to the mud while walking through the grass

Stiles gets there first, expecting his best friend, but he's nowhere to be seen.

When Lydia arrives, and sees him, she glares.

"_You_," she says, her tone accusing, even though she has nothing to accuse him of, and he turns, startled. His expression falls as soon as he sees that it's her.

She expected Allison. What she _didn't_ expect was Allison doing _this_, because—

"I—" He swears under his breath, looks like he's going to go back to the school, or to his jeep, but then thinks better of it. "Lydia, you need to talk to me."

"We don't need to talk," Lydia says, all the while cursing Allison a thousand times over inside her head because she isn't _ready_—what does she _say_ to make it right again—to make any of this right—

"Yeah, actually—yeah we do," he says, stepping closer.

(He's so much taller than she remembers him being.)

"First of all—_why_ have you been avoiding me?"

"I could ask you the same thing—"

"Bullshit," he cuts her off, "I was only doing the same thing you were—you know, reverse psychology. Or something." He takes a breath. He winces.

It's not his fault, though.

"Look, Lydia, could you just cut the crap and _tell_ me what's going on?"

Panic is starting to rise up in Lydia's throat. Her mind is blank. There is nothing there, no carefully constructed words, no prepared speech.

"_Lydia_," he prompts, sounding so tired, so worn out—so _done_—and then—

A dam breaks.

"Fine," she hisses, stepping close to him, "_fine_. I'm avoiding you because—because it's _you_."

"Gee, that's helpful," he says, the hurt from the past several weeks creeping into his tone—and, oh god, oh god what did she _do_—

"I've been doing it since _middle school_," she says, her voice beginning to rise in the cool March air, "Stiles, I have _liked you_ since I met you—and I—I just couldn't tell you—and then you had to go and—be _you_—and Allison tried to tell me, she did, but—"

"Wait, wait, hold up—_what did you just say_?"

He's closer now.

But the water behind the dam is rushing through now. It's a flood.

"You and your stupid comic books, you—you—"

The words are slipping from her again, even though she's desperately trying to grab hold, because it's too late—they can't fail her now, they _can't_.

"I was in France," she spits out, before the words can die on her lips, "I was in _France," _she repeats, "and Allison kept telling me to tell you—but I couldn't"

Lydia doesn't realize what she's said until it's already out in the open, resting in the still air between them.

Stiles looks shocked.

She steps away from him, nearly falls backwards, but he's there again, _so close_, and—

"You . . . you _like_ me," he says, like he can't quite believe it, and she nods, nods because the despair and misery that her wretched feelings have caused her are boiling over, into something that has yet to be determined—that will be determined by how this goes.

"Lydia Martin _likes_ me," he says, again, and she opens her mouth, to say something, to say anything, to salvage a friendship, because he isn't smiling, he's not, he's _not_—

"How long?" he asks, peering down at her, expression uncertain, "how long, Lydia?"

Lydia feels tears welling up in her throat. Her voice is quiet, and unsteady when she says it:

"The whole time."

"The whole—"

Lydia watches it sink in, slowly. Watches the way he rights himself, the way his facial features morph into an expression she's familiar with, because he's not angry, or sad, or anything.

"All this time," he states, because it's _not_ a question.

Lydia can't bring herself to nod this time.

A lifetime seems to pass, and Lydia's brain kicks into overdrive—because what if this is _it_—what if this is the part where he says the words she hoped she would never have to hear—and that—that was the whole _point_ of not telling him, so she wouldn't have to _hear_ him say it—

Warmth engulfs her, before she can stop her train of thought, or do much of anything at all. It takes her a moment to realize that Stiles—_Stiles_, Stiles Stilinski _himself_, the boy with eyes like whiskey—the boy whom she met on the playground while she was in a sundress with the urge to fly like a bird and soar above the world until the town she knew was nothing but a speck from the sky—is _holding_ her close, wrapped tight in his arms.

His hand is at the back of her neck, his other tight around her waist.

Lydia can't believe it.

_The whole time—after all this time_—

"I'm such an idiot," she hears him murmur. "I should have _known_."

Lydia relaxes into his arms, and thinks that this might be perfect, until—

"So, you love me, huh? Right? Y'know—"

He sounds _so_ _smug_—

Lydia pinches him for it.

* * *

><p>Lydia kisses Stiles about a month and a half later, hard on the mouth, on his front porch.<p>

Her heart soars when he laughs into her mouth and holds her tight against him.

* * *

><p>So it ends like this:<p>

She spends her summer in a flowered sundress, with her hair chasing her in a long braid. Her bare feet slip over the grass out in the park, in the yards, and on the sidewalk like it's nothing. She spends all of June and all of July (and all of August too) loving and learning the boy with eyes like the stuff that her father used to hide under the kitchen sink.

They say home is where the heart is, she remembers her mother telling her once, and tells him in August.

In turn, he tells her, with a smile so sweet that it melts her insides, "This does not mean I am a house."

(He is, though. He's _home_.)


End file.
